chapter 43.
I woke up to little voices whispering in the dark, trying (and failing) to contain their excitement. Then—louder, more confident—“Happy birthday, Mommy!”
For the very first time.
Three little words I had never heard directed at me before yet had longed for in ways I couldn’t always put into words. And now, here they were—real, tangible, spoken with love and joy from the tiny humans who call me theirs. In that moment, time slowed. The weight of every birthday before this one, every wish, every quiet ache, dissolved into something new. Something whole. Something I never want to take for granted.
Then my children climbed on top of me in bed and sang Happy Birthday, their out of tuned sweet laughter the most profound present I’ll ever receive.
And just like that, everything felt different.
Life is different from a year ago. I suppose we’re constantly changing with time, but this change feels more profound, more visceral. This time last year, I was making peace with the idea that I might never be a mother. I was learning to let go, adjusting to a future I wasn’t sure I had the strength to rewrite.
And yet—here I am. A mother. Their mother. Time truly changes—and heals—everything. Perhaps getting older does too.
Because it’s more than motherhood this year. I’m shifting. I have shifted. The last few trips around the sun have softened me and grounded me in ways I never expected. There’s a steadiness in my spirit that wasn’t there before. A patience. A surrender, maybe. Not in the sense of giving up, but in how the ocean surrenders to the shore—knowing it will always return, changed but whole.
A friend recently sent me a new track by Propagandhi called At Peace. It hit me in a way that only music can. Maybe it’s where I am in life—these early years of my middle-aged era—or perhaps it’s just the Aries in me, always burning, always moving forward. Aries are known for our fire, intensity, and relentless pursuit of whatever sets our souls ablaze. But even fire learns to smoulder—to glow with purpose, to radiate warmth without losing its strength.. Maybe that’s what this season of life is teaching me: how to burn without burning out.
The song itself carries a weight that lingers. At Peace, which, after listening to endlessly on replay, became my birthday anthem this year, isn’t about stillness or surrender in the way one might expect. It’s about reckoning—with the past, the world, and oneself—and somehow finding a way to exist within it all. It’s not a resignation but an acceptance—a recognition that life is both fleeting and relentless, brutal and beautiful. It’s the kind of peace that isn’t passive—it’s fought for and earned through experience, heartbreak, and growth.
So yeah, this year, I have felt something shift in me. There was a time when I lived only in the fire—always chasing, always reaching, never stopping long enough just to be. But now, I understand that peace isn’t the absence of movement; it’s knowing when to move and when to stand still. When to rage and when to rest. When to burn bright and when to let the embers flicker.
Maybe that’s what 43 is about—not losing the fire but learning how to carry it differently. There were only two things I wanted to do on my birthday: place my self-published poetry book on the shelves of my two favourite local bookstores and have a dance party with my children.
I got to do both.
Life fascinates me—how, in an entire galaxy, I have the rarity of experiencing thisone experience as me. And with each year, I’m learning to embrace it, to celebrate it, and to give thanks for it. Not just for the milestones or the big, life-altering moments but for the quiet in-between spaces, too—the ones that remind me I am here, I am alive, and that is enough.
So here I am, 43. At peace … mad love and all.
